The Many Misadventures of Little Bunny Fu Manchu
by PerfectDisaster22
Summary: Foo is missing. Again. Nobody in the Tower seems to know anything about it, and really, this is just making Clint's bad day even worse.


**Author's Note** : So after I wrote _Five Points of the Star_ for my dirty rotten enabling best friend Bailey, our mutual friend Erica read it and promptly demanded a fic of her own. And if one values one's life (and sanity), one does not deny Erica… Well. Anything, really. My orders were SHIELD Husbands, humor, and evil bunnies. If I failed to deliver, I was threatened with evil bunnies myself. I have A Thing about bunnies, so this was an effective threat.

I'm sorry it took me so long to finish this for you, Satan. But! It is now complete! (We won't talk about how it took me ten months.) I hope you're satisfied, oh Evil One. I have never had so much trouble with dialogue and narrative tone in my life. Also, the humor kind of got a bit drowned in surrounding angst, because… well. It's the Avengers. They aren't good at happy.

Timeline for this fic, as in _Five Points_ , is a bit… wibbly wobbly. We're somewhere post-Cap 3(ish), pre-Coulson Lives, Surprise Bitches! It also loses compliance with the MCU somewhere around the events of Cap 2, because AoU Jossed this thing straight to hell. It keeps abruptly shifting between memories and present with no warning because A, this is basically a very wordy 5+1, and B, Clint is fucking impossible.

 **Disclaimer** : Really? This is a damn fanfic website, do we really have to state we don't own, didn't happen, don't sue? Coz I don't, it didn't, and don't you dare. Characters belong to Marvel, the set-up belongs to Erica. I don't own a single thing of this fic. I'm also stomping all over canon back stories. Sorry not sorry.

* * *

"Where is he? Where the fuck is Foo? I swear to Santa Christ I am going to strangle that fluffy tailed motherfucker."

So, the first thing you need to know is that Philip J. Coulson was a troll.

A great big fat trolling troll who trolls. Trolled. Whatever. You get the point.

Most people wouldn't believe it of Coulson. With the unremarkable suits and the bland government smile and his frankly terrifying ability to blend unnoticed into a crowd, Coulson had screamed "square." The idea that he'd had a sense of humor, that he was the drollest motherfucker you'll ever meet with his dry wit and spot-on delivery… Most people didn't get that.

But it made him a great man to have in your ear on ops.

Or, well, a terrible man actually. You try keeping a straight face when you're working a room and Coulson's in your ear, doing a dead perfect Joan Rivers imitation on everyone in the joint. (Except Natasha, of course. Nat's attire is always perfect. Also she would have strung Coulson up by the toenails if he'd even breathed in a way she disliked. Except not really. But… you know.)

Anyways, I'm getting sidetracked. Back to the point… Coulson was a fucking troll. Exhibit A: Foo.

Foo is properly Little Bunny Fu Manchu, the jankiest looking stuffed animal it has ever been my misfortune to see. Bright ass fluorescent pink – the kind of pink you only see at raves and carnival midways. The fluffiest white tummy and tail you can imagine. One ear straight up, the other flopped over in its face. You think that's cute? Yeah, that's Foo luring you in so he can destroy you with his razor sharp teeth of death.

You think I'm kidding about the destroying thing, but I am dead fucking serious. The bunny is a menace. And since _somebody_ (*cough*Tony Fucking Stark*cough*) got awe-inspiringly drunk one night and thought it was a good idea to make the damn thing fly… This little fucker is fast, mobile, can hook into JARVIS' Tower-based protocols almost indiscriminately, and is my worst goddamn nightmare.

He was a present from Phil. Because, as mentioned previously, Phil was a fucking troll.

Scowling, I dropped through the vent. Now, sneaking up on most people in Avengers Tower is (a) impossible because they're super serumed or similarly superpowered, (b) a really stupid idea because none of these people handle surprises well (pretty sure PTSD, psychosis and anxiety disorders are requirements of joining the team at this point), or (c) all of the above. However, those concerns aren't relevant in Tony's private lab (as opposed to the Science!Bros lab he fools around in with Bruce, Jane's Star(k)Lab [Darcy named that one], The Broom Closet for "that asshole Pym and that other asshole Richards," or the SI R&D labs where he spends a surprising amount of his time [as Pepper likes to remind us, it's not the Science! part Tony hated about running SI, it was the business side]). Mostly because Tony blasts his music so damn loud that it drowns out all other noises. Up to and including air horns, sirens, minor to mid-sized explosions, and Darcy's fangirl squee (we've tested. Don't think I've ever seen Steve have so much fun.).

So instead of being startled by my sudden appearance from the ceiling – and, to be fair, I do that often enough that it's not really shocking anymore – his surprised shriek was caused when he turned around and saw me standing there. Little less badass, but eh. I'll take it.

At least, I assume he shrieked. I never turn my ears on until he has JARVIS cut the music and signs the all-clear. (Yeah, the heartless jackass who doesn't play well with others became fluent in ASL in a few weeks. Chew on that, TMZ.) Judging by the jump and the (priceless) facial expression, he shrieked. Nat would surely have that footage from JARVIS' security feed within two minutes (they have an understanding and yes, I am as terrified about that prospect as you are). The question was, would she hand it to me as leverage for that new bow prototype Tony's been promising, or would she keep it for herself?

Note to self, time to negotiate with Nat. She's been eyeing a custom pair of Sig Sauers that I've had stashed in my gym locker for a while now, maybe I could trade those (before she tries to steal them… again…).

"What can I do for you, bird brain?" Stark asked, turning from me as he tossed his monkey wrench onto the nearest horizontal surface (couch) and grabbed a rag (three days ago that was a $600 dress shirt) to (attempt to) wipe off the grease (an enterprise doomed to failure).

"Did you steal the rabbit again?" I asked. "I know you were threatening to give the bastard repulsors-"

"He'd be a hell of a sniper if we had an in-Tower emergency-"

"If it ever comes down to relying on a stuffed animal to secure your midlife crisis penis monument-"

"Are you stealing jokes from Lewis now?"

"-that means Barnes, Nat and I are all dead, and you're so thoroughly fucked six ways to Sunday that a goddamn demon rabbit cyborg won't make a bit of difference-"

"You're just gonna hurt his feelings, you know."

"Tony."

"Huh," he said absently, swigging out of a mug shaped like Hulk's fist (pretty sure that was motor oil, not coffee. He didn't seem to notice the difference.). "Oh! Right. No, Legolas, I don't have your fluffy widdle bunny wabbit. I promised Pepper I wouldn't even mention upgrading his tech again until I was on Day Almost-Five of a science bender, so-"

"Literally can't decide which part of that sentence frightens me more. So you haven't seen the little monster."

"Not since the last time he came down to have me fix a glitch in his surveillance system."

"…"

"You okay there, Tweety?"

Memo to self. Find the rabbit and dismantle… just… everything. All of it. Burn and salt all the pieces and throw the ashes in the ocean. Then go to Phil's grave and yell at him for at least two good hours about buying the damn menace in the first place.

I could totally get away with it, too. We were together for enough years for that to not be insubordination.

Phil may have recruited me into SHIELD when I was twenty two (post circus, during Army, pre marriage I think), but he wasn't my handler at first. Not for a few years, actually. Phil was a Level 7 Agent at the time and likely soon to be promoted (again); nobody was gonna waste his talent on mentoring a wet-behind-the-ears recruit who barely had the security clearance to get into the building. I don't remember who the first handler was… Or the seven after that. Before eighteen months had passed, I was known within SHIELD almost as much for my complete incompatibility with handlers as I was for being the guy who brings a bow to a gunfight (and then wins the fight, which is literally the only reason Fury only put up a token protest about me using "a damn Paleolithic antique instead of a decent gun like a normal person").

Anyways, that went on for a few years. I'd be assigned a handler, I'd go on mission, and if the handler was still there by the end it was a fucking miracle. Most of the time, shit didn't even go wrong on the missions, but handlers dropped me like a rock anyways. I'm apparently volatile, don't play well with others (I wonder if Tony would be offended that he's not the only one), or something. I'd get home, Hill would do that jaw clenched, pursed lip thing of hers that has made no less than nine junior agents wet themselves, Fury would pace and rant about me breaking another handler, and I'd get reassigned. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I found out later that Fury had been keeping Phil apprised of how I was doing, since I was his recruit and "pet project" (Fury's words, not Phil's). As I left more and more handlers in my wake, Fury had apparently washed his hands of me, and told Phil to either find me a handler or put me out to pasture – which could have meant either turn me loose, put me down, send me to the Academy for a lifetime sentence of teaching probies how to aim, or hand me back to the Army. Not sure which of those scenarios was supposed to be the worst case. (Academy. Definitely the Academy.)

Anyways, then Borneo happened.

In the annals of "Legendary (FUBAR) SHIELD Missions," Borneo ranks as Number Three (behind Bahrain and Budapest). The mission actually went really well… right up to the point where it all went to hell.

Now, working with SHIELD, especially as a field agent, and you're gonna see a lot of shit. It's part of the job, and it's why every field op ends with both a debrief and a mandatory session with the shrinks. But Borneo was… I had a harder time letting Borneo go. Kept running it over in my head, trying to find ways we could've turned it around. Dreamed about it for weeks (years) after, clocked more hours on the range in three weeks than agents are supposed to in two months.

I guess somebody noticed – probably Phil himself, actually, though he might have been encouraged to intervene by the Eyepatches That Be. Phil hadn't been in my ear for Borneo, but he had been the one coordinating the mission as a whole (personally, I think Phil was wasted on behind-the-front-lines overview when he was such a damn good field commander, but hey, what do I know). Knowing Phil, he had probably been working his way through every agent connected to that fucking disaster, making sure that those who needed to be removed from active duty were sent to the shrinks or back to safer bases, and those left behind would be able to carry on to the next mission. Must've been my turn on the roster that day.

He broadcast his presence, but not enough to disturb me while I sat down for my weekly visit to Agent Armin, who'd been my handler for Borneo. When I made no objection, he lowered himself beside me, apparently not worried about grass stains on his suit. We sat in silence for a long time, until he spoke.

"It wasn't your fault."

I scoffed, but didn't answer, keeping all my focus on the headstone. Of course it was my fucking fault. I'd been fucking around, made the wrong call, and Armin paid for it.

"It's not," Phil repeated, his voice quiet but firm. "I've been going over the footage, I've talked to all the agents on the ground and in the air. I have combed over every inch of the scene. You did everything you could."

"If I'd done everything I could, he'd be alive," I snapped, hunching in a bit as I wrapped my arms around my knees.

"You're a damn good shot, Barton. Best we've got by a huge margin, easily one of the best in the world," Phil said steadily. "But even you couldn't have seen that sniper."

"It's my fucking job to see it, Coulson," I glared, turning to face him. "I saw the other three, so why the fuck-"

"Exactly. You saw the other three," he cut me off, holding my gaze. "We dropped into Borneo thinking it was a reconnaissance mission, not an emergency requiring immediate mass extraction. If you hadn't been there, none of our guys would've made it back, and none of those civilians would have survived."

I looked away, letting the breath out slow and steady to keep from losing my shit. I didn't voice the retort that we'd lost enough agents as it was; no need to state the obvious. Phil didn't try to lay a comforting hand on me or anything; he just kept talking.

"Before I was with SHIELD, I was an Army Ranger," he said, staring out over the cemetery. "I was in Mogadishu in '93. Watched two of my buddies fall because I didn't see the enemy in my scope until it was too late."

That brought my attention back to him. There were rumors about Coulson, of course; stories floated around about him, from both his SHIELD days and before. But he never talked about it.

"Does the guilt go away?" I asked.

He sighed, running a hand along his stubbled jaw. "No. Not completely. Sometimes, you just gotta accept that you did what you could to keep a SNAFU from becoming a complete FUBAR." He pinned me down again, his clear grey eyes damn near shining with his conviction. "You kept Borneo from becoming a complete FUBAR, Clint. Armin would be proud of that. He'd be proud of you."

Phil signed the paperwork to become my handler three days later. I never worked with anyone again, until… Well. Until Loki happened.

Rolling my shoulders, I headed for the elevator. I could have taken the air ducts to my next destination and gotten there a helluva lot faster, but… Well. There are four people in the world that I will not drop in on like that, and Barnes is number two. So instead of the ventilation system, I just took the elevator to Steve's floor. Look at me, acting like a normal person. Fury would be so proud.

The fact that it's been an… _interesting_ … past few years is a fact that I fully lay at Steve's feet. After all, he's the one that destroyed my place of employment (not that I wanted to be willingly working for the Nazi offshoot terrorist organization, but… y'know), and then went on an epic road trip to tame his revenge-rampaging ex(ish)-boyfriend and bring him in for deprogramming (and re-boyfriending). At least it hasn't been boring.

People used to tease Phil about the Captain America adulation. I… could never get away with that, because if I tried Phil would just turn to me with his most menacing bland smile and reply, "Three words, Barton. Fifteen hundred meters."

Despite whatever Darcy may try to tell you, I do not squee. I never squee. I am an adult (ish) and a goddamn professional, I do not fangirl. I never had the trading cards or comics, I don't read the biographies, I didn't raid the old SSR files (you can't prove it). I'm just a professional sniper who can appreciate how fucking amazing it is that Sergeant James B. Barnes of the 107th Infantry, 2nd Battalion and SSR SpecOps Team Alpha (codename: Howling Commandos) was able, with WW2-era technology (and lack thereof), to make consistent confirmed kills at 1,500 meters in a time when the machinery was less reliable, snipers had to do more of the calculations by hand, and most soldiers with the same gun were lucky to hit anything past 900 meters.

For the record, we've taken him out to the range in Utah with the best machinery available and he's now able to accurately hit targets at 2,469 meters. My record is 2,463 and no, I am not jealous. Much. He promised to get me those last six meters. And I'm still better than he is with the spy portion of spysassining ("spysassining" copywrited to Darcy Lewis).

Anyways. The point is that I do not squee over Barnes or fangirl over his abilities. I also do not drop in on him from the ceiling, because I value my life and limbs, thank you very much. Instead, I took the elevator up several floors, to the apartment he shares with Steve, and knocked on the door. Like a normal person (again, Fury would be so proud).

There was a long moment of silence, so by the time Steve opened the door I knew what kind of situation I'd be walking into. Usually, if Steve's in the apartment on his own he'll just holler for you to come in (Bucky is continually shocked, horrified, and goddamn insulted by Stevie's lack of manners, Jesus Roosevelt Christ Rogers you were _not_ raised in a barn show some damn respect your mama would be fucking appalled. Quote unquote.) Otherwise, Barnes is the one answering the door (Mission: protect Steve; Objective: assess potential threat level). So if Steve was the one opening the door… today was not a good day in the Rogers/Barnes household.

It would be wrong to say that any of us can ever forget what kind of hell Barnes survived. The man's recovered, as much as anyone can from the kinds of abuses he suffered under HYDRA and Department X, but no, it's not the kind of thing you forget. Even if the metal arm wasn't there to remind us, there was a weight on his shoulders and shadows in his eyes that would never, _could_ never go away. But a little over half the time, you can overlook it. Barnes may not have Nat's utter self-possession yet (ever), but he's pulled enough of himself together from the shattered pieces of the charmer from Brooklyn, the 107th's and the Howlies' NCOIC, and the useful bits of the Soldier to be able to get by day by day as this new person, as this Barnes he's created (only Steve gets to call him Bucky; Sam usually sticks with JB; Nat and Darcy share James).

Then you get the other forty percent of the time. Which apparently today fell into. Days when Barnes wakes up disoriented and can't remember where or when or who he is, or days when something triggers him and the memories come flooding back – or worse, he snaps back into the Soldier, convinced that we're all trying to kill him.

I took a good look at Steve as he opened the door. Visibly tired, shoulders tight(er than usual), dark shadows under his eyes; but no noticeable bruises or injuries. Meaning no Soldier, but probably nightmares. Possibly for the both of them.

"Hey Clint," Steve said, holding the door open to let me in (definitely nightmares; no one except Nat's allowed into the apartment when the Soldier happens). "We missing a training session or something?"

"Nah. You have the good coffee and I have to head down to HQ to oversee a probie training session soon," I replied, breezing past him and heading straight for the coffee machine.

Side note, much to Tony's delighted joy, Steve utterly adores the custom coffeemaker Tony made for him last Christmas. There are more buttons and doodads on this thing than anyone could possibly need and I don't know if even Steve knows all of their functions. The only reason I know how to use the damn thing is because it's also got a voice control option (because of course it does).

As I waited for my cup (more like a bowl, but whatever) to brew, I glanced over at the blanket burrito curled into the corner of the couch where he could keep an eye on all the exits as well as the ludicrously large TV playing old Muppets episodes. Barnes had tucked himself into the thickest, heaviest comforter he and Steve owned. Definitely nightmares, then.

Steve and Barnes tend to keep the thermostat in their apartment a few degrees higher than anyone and anywhere else in the Tower. There may have been a couple of nonagenarian jokes about it. But neither of the aforementioned nonagenarians does well with the cold. Particularly when one or both of them is in aftercare mode after a bad night. After all, they both dream about ice and the kind of cold that sinks into your bones and never really lets you go. They've both been known to burrito themselves when the chill is particularly bad. I was willing to bet that beneath the comforter, Barnes was in a hoodie, thermal shirt, sweatpants, and a thick pair of wool socks courtesy of Lewis. Possibly holding a hot water bottle to the joint between his arm and shoulder, because no matter how many times Tony reassures him, Barnes doesn't trust heating pads.

Once the sweet, beautiful coffee was ready (and I'd made a mug for Barnes, because he pouts if there's coffee within fifty yards of him until you get him some too), I made my way across the room, telegraphing my movements. When his gaze didn't divert from the TV, I took that as a sign that there was no Soldier episode immanent, and settled next to him, setting his mug down on the coffee table. I didn't have to look at Steve full-on to see the gratitude in his eyes as he headed to the bathroom for a (long, as hot as he could stand) shower.

My friendship with Barnes is basically all Nat's fault. She'd been the one to bring him down to the Tower's shooting range – technically before the shrinks had cleared him to be around weapons, but I trust Nat more than shrinks anyway, and if she thought Barnes could handle it, then he could handle it. There'd been a few rounds of professional competition, followed by a few weeks of sniffing around each other to find out where the other stood in Nat's favor (she had heartily rolled her eyes, but let us get on with it, and only called me an overprotective caveman once, so yay). By the time he'd figured out that I was spoken for and I'd figured out that not only was his _Past_ with Natalia firmly in the past, but also that he was (still; always) stupid in love with Steve, we'd built up a camaraderie.

I don't know how he found out about the Loki Thing. Probably Nat. But he'd found me in the parkour shooting course late one night after a particularly bad series of nightmares. Tony's one policy for the parkour room is no live weapons; Nerf guns (modded within an inch of their life, naturally) only. He'd borrowed Steve's pair and provided a seamless counterpoint to my pattern, working me like a damn horse trainer until I crossed the finish line and tapped out.

"You focus too hard on your targets," he informed me as we put the guns away. "You don't let yourself relax into your shots, even though that's clearly your training. Why not?"

I took a long drink of Gatorade before answering. "There was a period when I relaxed too much into it."

"When you were brainwashed," he said bluntly.

Another long gulp. "Yeah."

Barnes was quiet for a long moment, and when he answered he refused to look at me.

"The focus reminds you that it's you in your head, that you're pulling the trigger."

"It was me in my head, before," I contradicted him. "He didn't take anything out of me. I knew what I was doing. He just made me not care about why."

Neither of us said anything else about it. But after that night, somehow, late-night parkour Nerf wars became our thing. And even if we never really talked about HYDRA or Loki aside from the occasional oblique reference (fuck you, I know words), it was still… nice. To have someone who understood.

I think that's probably why Steve is more willing to let me hang around when Barnes is in aftercare mode. Scrambled Egg Brain Spysassin Bros, for the win.

It took Barnes about half the episode to register – well, fine, he probably registered it because he notices everything; to respond, then – that I was sitting next to him, and that there was coffee. He didn't say anything until the episode was over and the next was queuing up.

"Stevie call you?" he asked, his voice raspy (the nightmares must've made him scream again), before reaching for his coffee.

I shook my head. "Bunny's on the lam again. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

On his good days, Barnes is a master prank god. Foo is his devoted Igor. It's exactly as terrifying as you think it is.

Barnes' forehead furrowed as he tried to power through the fugue and think. "Don't think so," he offered after a moment. "Pretty sure the last time I saw him was after the marching band."

Despite myself, I couldn't hold back a snicker. I have no idea how Barnes managed to arrange to have a marching band follow Steve on his morning run through Central Park and play such classics as _Star Spangled Man with a Plan_ , _Baby Got Back_ and the theme to _Sonic X_ , but holy shit it was glorious. And Foo caught all of it on film – last JARVIS told us, the youtube video had over four million hits.

Probably the one time in my life I've been honestly glad for the bunny's existence.

For the record, it's my brother's fault that I have a Thing about both rabbits and stuffed animals. Barney had me watching _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ waaaay too young, because he found my terror hilarious or something, I dunno.

He stole me one of those stupid dead-eyed plushie toys off the midway when I couldn't calm back down. Which, y'know, was kinda nice. Tweety made a pretty decent pillow.

At least until Barney stole him back a few weeks later to use him as target practice.

Yeah, my brother is kind of a dick.

And fuck, really shouldn't have started down that particular rabbit hole when I had to go supervise probies. Aw, brain, no. Maybe it's a good thing Coulson exited stage left (pursued by a Loki); he would've busted my balls if he knew I was going to a training session this pissed off.

I know I always look kinda pissed off, but I swear that's just my resting bitch face. Fortunately, the probies wouldn't know the difference between the two, so I just had to keep my mouth shut for the next few hours until training was over.

Come to think of it, how the hell was I even stuck babysitting? I was a Level 7 SpecOps Agent (and Avenger) before SHIELD went down. And I know we're kinda shorthanded since Stark took over footing the bill, but I am neither a babysitter nor a teacher. So why the _hell_ am I watching these not-SHIELD probies shoot their boom-sticks (oh goddamnit, now I'm using Lewis-speak in everyday life. What the hell even is my li- fuck, there I go again)?

Once the training session was finally over (three hours of my life I can never get back, Jesus), I got roped into a debrief session by Agents Maniola and Lopez, the two actually in charge of firearms classes. We spent roughly an hour discussing each and every last one of the twenty-four probationary Not-SHIELD agents; cataloguing strengths and weaknesses and earmarking those who could be moved to more advanced training. I avoided any promises to help train the more promising ones (again, I am not a teacher), and took off as soon as I could get away.

Manhattan was in the middle of the evening rush hour by the time I was able to get out of HQ. Times Square is a horrific tourist trap at the best of times, but at 5:30 on a weekday evening? It's fucking torture. I thought about getting on the subway for all of thirty seconds before deciding it wasn't worth the crush; it would take less time to walk up to 57th and Park than try to brave the crowd.

Once I made it back to the Tower I headed straight to Star(k)Lab, Doctor Foster's secondary lab on Level Three of ten R&D floors (her primary lab is on the roof, for obvious reasons, and as part of her signing bonus Stark gifted her with a private observatory complex out in the ass-end of nowhere, Nevada, which she scampers off to at least twice a month). I was in a shit mood, and since it was right about the time Natasha would be in her private ballet studio, the only thing that would calm me down was snarking at Lewis while she used her magic hands on me.

…

Massages! Lewis gives great massages! That's all I meant!

After keying in my access code (Foster's is the only lab I get an access code to, and that's mostly because Lewis uses me to help her herd Foster and Selvig when they're particularly cranky), I walked in to find Jane rapidly manipulating a holographic display and muttering to herself in a combination of grunts and Science!speak, while Lewis was hunched over her laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard while she and JARVIS collated data.

"What the fuck is on your head, Lewis?" I asked, plopping into an ergonomic office chair and staring dumbly at the neon orange monstrosity that clashed horribly with her maroon sweater and berry-tinted lips.

The temperature in Foster's lab is kept cold year-round out of deference to the, to quote Lewis, "grumpypants thingamawhatsits," by which I _think_ she means the enormous and apparently very sensitive science-y machines. Although, when Jane hits a block in the Science! she can also be classified as a grumpypants thingamawhatsit, so.

But yeah, the lab's fucking freezing on the best days. And Lewis? Not a fan of the cold. The coffee is as much for its warmth as for its caffeine. And she knits (or sometimes finds, and sometimes is even gifted) warm things – she refuses to knit herself sweaters, those she buys, but she makes herself fingerless gloves and beanies and scarves. And, apparently, the godawful _thing_ on her head.

She grinned. "How's it sit? Pretty cunning, don't you think?"

I blinked again, taking her hand and looking into her eyes with real concern. "Darce, honey… I think all the Science! has resulted in some brain damage."

Lewis rolled her eyes, shoving me backwards with a well-aimed kick. "Clinton. _Firefly_. _We have discussed this_."

I rolled my eyes, groaning. "Not you too. I already get this from Nat."

"Exactly!" Lewis yelped, throwing a glare over her shoulder in my general direction as she spun toward the printer, grabbing whatever data was spewing out. "You're best friends with Natasha. The biggest Whedon fan of anyone in this Tower. _How_ do you not have the entire show memorized?"

"It's a gift," I replied, before very subtly and skillfully changing topics. "Where's Selvig?"

"He was pantsless and speaking in theoretical quantum geometry again, so I sent him to get a kilt," she replied.

She continued typing with one hand as she blindly reached for the enormous dragon-shaped mug on the corner of her desk. (Pro tip: every weird, kitschy mug in this entire Tower was supplied by Lewis. I have no idea where she finds these things.) Rolling my eyes when she made grabby hands, I handed the mug over with a faint mutter of, "Khaleesi" (I have tried to resist, but I swear to Christ she is a walking pop culture reference. It was adapt or die. Except for Whedon. Don't like his smug forehead.). She hummed in approval, wrinkling her nose at the ice cold coffee before shrugging and drinking it anyways. (I swear to God these are the times when I start to wonder if that rumor about Darcy being Stark's spawn is actually true.)

"How long till you ladies are done?" I asked.

Lewis scoffed. "Science! is never done, Robin Hood." Then she glanced at her phone. "Janey? You eat those Pop-Tarts I gave you?"

"Yeah, yeah, in a minute," Jane replied absently, flicking a few displays around.

Lewis rolled her eyes, pushing back her seat. "Save that for me and upload it to Jane's cloud, would you please J?"

"Of course, Miss Lewis," JARVIS replied.

"Let's go, HawkGuy," she ordered, pulling me up by the bicep (she's surprisingly strong).

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Real food," she announced. "After which, Jane is going to shower."

"Darcy, I'll shower later, these calculations-" Jane started.

"JARVIS can finish running the calculations," Lewis interrupted her. "And he'll have them done before dark, so we can head up to the roof as soon as the sun's down so you can recalibrate the whatsiwhosit telescoppy thingamadoo."

"Electromagnetic mass spectrometer," Jane corrected.

"That's what I said," Lewis grinned. "Twenty minutes, Jane."

That said, Lewis pushed me out the door and headed for the elevators, clutching the dragon mug to her chest.

"Why the resting bitch face, Barton?" she asked, tilting her head. "Natasha lock you out of the range again?"

Side note, the fact that Natasha has adopted Darcy is possibly more terrifying than the thought of Stark weaponizing the damn rabbit.

I shook my head. "Probie babysitting."

"Ouch," she replied, wrinkling her nose with the appropriate level of sympathy. "Who'd the probies piss off to deserve that?"

I shot her a Look. She grinned back, unrepentant, before hitting the button to take us up to the Avengers' common floor.

"Seriously though, who thought it was a good idea to put you on babysitting duty?" she asked as we headed up. "You hate probie training."

I sighed, shrugging. "We don't have enough hands on deck for me to say no. It was fine."

"Mhm," Lewis said vaguely, leading me to the fucking massive kitchen area. "Make yourself useful, cut me up some cherry tomatoes and wash that bunch of asparagus in the crisper."

One does not argue with Darcy Elizabeth Lewis in the kitchen. You just don't. She's Ashkenazi Reform Jewish on her mom's side and Italian on her dad's; there is no arguing with her about anything pertaining to food. Especially not if you ever want her to whip you up baked goods ever again. And no one with half a brain risks losing access to Lewis' baked goods. And so, even though I am a (to quote Lewis) "culinary disaster," I chopped her veggies and wrapped fish in foil and did whatever else she said as she prepped dinner for her favorite scientist.

All joking aside? Lewis is kinda awesome. I can see why the SHIELD higher-ups had been working on the best way to persuade her to become the SHIELD-Avengers liaison. Y'know. Before SHIELDRA exploded. Phil had been the first person to suggest it. He always did see the best in everyone…

Cue another angsty flashback, I guess, and goddamn was I getting sick of having memories of Phil attack me from all sides today.

In addition to being a good man and a good agent, Coulson was a damn good handler. He had this spot-on instinct for how to handle his people – when they needed to be pushed, when they needed reprimanding, when he needed to back off, and on the rare occasions when they needed comforting, how to do that without seeming patronizing.

Coulson was good with people. It's probably why he kept getting assigned to the (to quote the Eyepatch) "volatile" assets.

After the complete disaster that was Borneo, SHIELD sent me out on a couple of fluff assignments, presumably so Coulson and I could get used to each other. Well, actually, I still maintain that going on fluff assignments beneath my skill level was punishment from Coulson for dodging psych evals. But whatever. Point was, I had a couple months of calm before I got sent out on a real mission.

Now, you might ask yourself how in the hell a very American looking white guy from the cornfields of the Midwest ended up a specialist in the Middle East. My answer is that it was kind of a fluke. Originally ("originally" as in, before Natasha happened) I worked primarily in Russia and the Baltics. But then Natasha happened, and she brought a frankly ridiculous web of contacts with her that rendered me superfluous to that area of the world. Someone remembered that I'd been stationed in the Middle East in the Army, so they brushed me up on my Arabic and Kurdish and set me loose.

You'd think that being a very American looking white guy from the cornfields of the Midwest in the Middle East would be dangerous, given how various terrorist groups feel about us right now. And… okay yeah, it's not like I'm going for a stroll through the Upper East Side. But money speaks louder than politics, so I do alright for myself (usually). My cover is usually that I'm a contractor from the Baltics, looking for weapons for my bosses (easy way for SHIELD to maintain my old contacts without my missions spilling over into Nat's territory).

Until Basra happened.

Man, I really do not have luck with cities or countries that start with B.

Basra was a shitstorm – thanks, Al Qaeda! It was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission; I was just supposed to be tracking some shipment handoffs between factions. Then Al Qaeda showed up and started shooting everybody. As they do. I just barely managed to get myself and my contact Aashif out before we were made. Not a complete loss; I did get most of the information was I sent out to discover. But still, messy.

I wasn't in great shape when I got home – not as bad as Borneo, but not-okay enough to be dodging the SHIELD shrinks again. When I got back to my apartment after debrief, I nearly died of a heart attack – Coulson was sitting on my ratty living room couch, flipping through paperwork with one hand while with the other he had reduced Lucky to a drooling, squirming mess (not that that's much different than normal).

"What the fuck, Coulson!" I'd yelped once I stepped away from the wall and lowered my Beretta (bows and arrows are not great clandestine weaponry, so if I insisted on using them, Fury insisted on my having at least one gun on my person at all times).

"Chinese, Mexican or Ethiopian?" he asked, nodding toward the plethora of take-out menus on the coffee table.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Doctor Akiyama called you."

"I'm impressed you know her name, considering you always refuse to see her," Coulson said mildly.

Sighing again, I collapsed on the other side of the couch, joining Coulson in petting the dog. "Diner food. Preferably breakfast."

We had this whole code worked out involving take-out; "On a scale of bad Chinese to good pizza, how badly do you regret this mission?" I don't remember how that got started, only that after the second fluff mission, every debrief with Coulson involved food. It was a Thing.

None of the food was ever as good as the salmon, asparagus, caprese salad, and garlic breadsticks Lewis had somehow managed to whip up in the space of fifteen minutes. And since I was such a gentleman and helped Lewis carry it down to the labs for Jane and Bruce, Darcy took pity on my bad day and let me eat Tony's portion, since apparently Pepper had dragged him out of the labs and had taken him off to some sort of benefit function.

After dinner with Team Science!, Bruce went off to his own lab and Darcy and Jane headed up to the roof, so I decided to call it a night. I could've stayed in the Tower – Nat and I share a floor – but honestly, I wasn't really up for company. Even Nat's. So instead I put Lucky on his leash, borrowed one of the cars Stark keeps on campus for us, and headed out to Brooklyn for the night. All I wanted in the world was a pizza, my couch, and a Netflix marathon.

As soon as I opened the door, Lucky leaped onto the couch, gnawing at something pink and… fluffy…

"Oh shit!" I yelped, diving for the chew toy. "What the fuck, dog, are you-?"

Lucky, of course, took this as an invitation for tug-of-war, and started yanking on his end for dear life. Cursing and growling, I pulled back.

So of course the thing ripped in half.

"Fuck!" I yelled, staring at the destroyed toy in dismay.

Of fucking course I had managed to destroy one of the most important things Phil had ever gotten me. Jesusfuck.

Before it registered that the end I was holding sported a curly tail. Meaning this wasn't Foo, it was Lucky's chew toy pig (another gift from Coulson, but not as important).

I burst into hysterical laughter, collapsing back against the couch as somewhere in there, the laughs turned into sobs.

Foo was a Christmas present. We were in Bermuda post-op, waiting in a shitty little hole in the wall safe house for an extraction team that had gotten delayed, so it was gonna be at least seven hours extra before we could get out of there.

Christmas has never meant much to me, for probably obvious reasons. But it was Coulson's favorite time of the year. He couldn't always get away from work to see his family, but more often than not he'd be in Wisconsin with his folks, hip-deep in snow, nieces and nephews. He always complained about the Packers fans and the terrible drivers, but he'd loved going home. And here he was, stuck in Bermuda with me. He'd insisted he didn't mind, that it was nice to spend holiday time with a friend, but I'd known better. Who the fuck wanted to be with a work colleague, even one you count a friend, when your own family is missing you at home?

Phil didn't actually handle being bored well. It's why he had so many hobbies, because he went fucking stir crazy if he had nothing to do for hours on end. Since the Bermuda safe house didn't have any books, board games, or booze (though honestly, it was probably a good thing there was no booze, otherwise I'd have done something unfortunate and that would've gotten us compromised), Phil set himself to decorating the place for Christmas. I have no idea where he scrounged up ribbons, thread and popcorn; best answer is "because he's Coulson," I guess. But within two hours he had popcorn garlands around every window, and he'd twisted a wreath of ribbons for the front door. Then he hijacked a hibiscus plant from the backyard to serve as a tree before tossing me a wallet of petty cash.

"Seriously?" I'd asked.

"Extraction team's not getting here before tomorrow morning," he'd replied. "Go out and get us something to eat. Don't get shot."

I'd stared at him, incredulous, but he'd just given me the bland smile that translated to "I will make you do this and you will not enjoy it so it's in your best interests to do it voluntarily," so I'd hightailed it out of there.

Walking through the markets of Saint George at 16:45 on Christmas Eve was a delightfully surreal experience; cheesy American Christmas carols playing from a staticky old radio while vendors hawked citrus fruits, cigars, and tacky tourist souvenirs. I made my way through the stalls slowly, haggling for a ready-made pawpaw casserole here, a couple of fat mahi mahi there. Since Bermuda is an English Territory, most of the vendors spoke pretty good English, which is good, because the unofficial language is Portuguese. My Spanish is basically fluent, but my Portuguese is complete shit.

One of the stalls was selling souvenirs that were tacky enough to offend even my admittedly awful sensibilities. Grinning deviously, I snapped up a couple of Christmas presents – a shot glass for Nat, coz that's our Thing. I buy her a shot glass for every city I visit, and she buys me a beer stein. This one was gloriously awful, with cartoon, glitter-covered palm trees. And it was pink glass. The Look on her face would be glorious.

Next to the tacky, awful shot glasses were tacky, awful socks. Now, you might not believe it of Coulson (what with the perfectly tailored, expensive designer suits and all), but the man had adored tacky, terrible socks and boxers. The more offensive to good taste, the better. These ones were a thing of beauty – one red, one green, both covered in the ugliest elves you've ever seen holding candy canes. They were hideous, and thus, perfect.

I made my way back to the safe house, a pep in my step as I whistled _Mele Kelekimaka_. When I got inside, I stopped dead, staring.

Joining the popcorn strands were daisy chains of newspaper and tissue paper, cardboard Santas, and even a damn gingerbread house. Our hibiscus Fakemas tree was covered in tinsel and cheap plastic ornaments, and there were even a couple of presents underneath. I knew I hadn't been gone more than an hour, so how in the hell…?

"Seriously, Coulson?" I asked, bewildered. "Where in the name of holy fuck did you even find all of this?"

Coulson gave his bland government smile. "That's classified."

I burst into laughter, bending nearly double as the tears fell from my eyes. (I have no idea why it was so funny, it just was.) Coulson smiled – a real smile, a Phil smile, the one that took the tension from his shoulders and make his eyes crinkle at the corners. I don't know how many people have seen that smile, but it's fucking beautiful.

When I finally calmed down, we made dinner together, moving around each other easily, like we'd done this millions of times. Since the safe house was one of the shittier ones, we didn't try to eat at the rickety card table; we sat on the floor in front of the Fakemas tree and washed down the food with some fucking fantastic Bermuda rum, which Phil had winked as he poured out.

"A Christmas present from the Director," he'd said.

I raised an eyebrow. "Used your black card, huh?"

Phil smiled. "Well, he does owe us for delaying our transport out of here."

(In later years, I would always wonder if Fury hadn't delayed the extraction team on purpose.)

After the food was gone, we exchanged presents while taking long, slow pulls from the bottle. He got his socks; I got Foo.

To be honest, most of the rest of that night is hazy in my memories. I know that when I kissed him, Phil tasted like rum and gingerbread, I'm pretty sure I made at least one comment about sucking him like a candy cane, and I think at one point I chucked Foo across the room because his beady little eyes were watching us and that's just wrong.

After that, the rule became that we always spent Christmas Eve together. Didn't matter where in the world I was or what was going on at SHIELD; we spent Christmas Eve together. I couldn't always leave my assignment to head back to Wisconsin with him, and he couldn't always stay the entire night. But we always managed to have at least a few hours to be together.

And somehow, even if I'd expressly hidden the damn thing, Phil always found Foo and brought him along for the night.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I must've at some point, because the ringing of my phone jerked me awake. I flailed, managing to smack my head on the coffee table, before I managed to find my damn phone. A glance at the time told me it was oh-dark-thirty, which meant this call wasn't gonna be anything good.

"Yeah," I croaked into the phone.

"Suit up and get to the roof," Natasha ordered. "We're swinging by you in fifteen."

Most people probably couldn't tell how damn irritated Natasha was; to the casual observer, she probably sounded just as calm and detached as usual. But at the sound of her voice, my hackles went up. Oh damn, she was ready to murder somebody, and I was gonna have to help hide the body. Again. Mothertrucker.

I may not be a smart man, but I know better than to further piss Natasha off when she's already this close to murdering somebody. So I grabbed my go bag and headed up to the roof, shooting Kate a text to be on standby to take care of the dog.

The quinjet came by a few minutes later – and since Nat was the one driving, she didn't bother hovering. She flew by slow and low, tilting the plane at just the right angle, and I flung myself off the roof at the perfect moment to land inside the plane.

The looks on Steve's, Wanda's, Carter's, Bruce's and Hill's faces were priceless.

"You done showing off now?" Barnes casually called into the cockpit, a faint smirk on his face.

"For now," Nat called back.

"So what're we all doing here at oh dark thirty?" I asked, dropping my duffel in a seat. "Please tell me it's not Doom again. It's too early to deal with Richards."

Carter and Barnes snickered, and though Steve was in Cap mode he couldn't stop a grin either. Hill kept her cool, but she was amused too.

"Weaponized robotic units came out of the Hudson just north of the Lincoln Tunnel about ten minutes ago," she replied. "Iron Man, Iron Patriot, Thor, and Falcon are already on the scene. We're hoping to force the units back into the river, keep the damage on the Jersey side."

Steve, ever the good ol' Brooklyn boy, couldn't hold back his smirk anymore at the thought of Jersey's immanent destruction.

"Priority is keeping the Lincoln open," Hill continued. "Figuring out how these things are communicating with each other and their operator would be nice, too, but really, that's Stark's problem. You people just find the off switch. Failing that, just keep the pieces small enough to be easily salvageable. Christie'll be nicer to us if we don't make cleanup a bitch."

"Is Christie ever nice?" I asked.

Hill raised her eyebrows, acknowledging the point. The governor of New Jersey was not exactly our biggest fan. Probably because we prefer to herd the Monsters of the Week his way instead of letting them ravage Manhattan (we have priorities). The fact that our fearless leader is a Brooklyn boy who after over 90 years still harbors a deep and abiding passionate hatred for Jersey is a coincidence, really.

As we approached the site of the robots' emergence, I sat up straighter, blinking rapidly.

"Are those… Am I looking at robot bunnies?" I asked blankly.

"Yes," Hill said tightly. "Yes you are."

"Seriously?"

"Apparently."

"Who the hell even-?"

"I have no idea," Hill sighed. "None of the usual suspects are stepping forward to claim responsibility."

Huffing, I unpacked my bow. "Coulson would be amused."

This is the shit that made his day, honestly. He always did appreciate creativity in villains. Said it made the job more interesting.

Nat dropped Barnes and I off on a couple of rooftops in strategic locations. Our SOP was that Barnes took out immediate threats and provided cover, while I herded enemies into a more advantageous position and called out patterns over comms. Usually it's a system that works pretty well.

Granted, when you have two dozen twelve-foot-tall robotic bunnies that are both aquatic and flight-capable, the job gets a little harder.

"Laser eyes? Fucking seriously?" I complained. "They have goddamn lasers in their eyes. Who does that?"

"Somebody who watches too many Bond movies?" Tony suggested.

"They're definitely using something in their ears to control navigation," I said. "The ear will twitch before they turn left or right. Sonar, maybe?"

"Echolocation, possibly," Tony replied. "They're giving off some sort of energy wave. I'm trying to get JARVIS to isolate it without interfering with any of the city's telecoms, but there's something blocking us."

"Focus on containment for right now," Hill directed. "Don't let the units go any further east or north, National Guard's gonna be coming down 12th Ave once they can get through traffic."

"Great. We'll see 'em next week," Tony quipped. "You know who we could use right now, Barton?"

"Don't even say it," I growled.

"I'm just saying. He's small, he's fast, agile. Has an EMP or three-"

"For fuck's sake, Stark," I sighed.

"Do I even want to know?" Hill cut in.

"Foo," I replied.

"Oh, mother _fucker_ ," Hill swore.

Hill has it in for the demon bunny almost as much as I do. And for that, she has my eternal respect and gratitude.

In the days before Stark got his hands on the damn thing, Foo had been a menace the old-fashioned way. Namely, by Coulson hiding him in places where I was sure to find him at unexpected times. Up in the vents of the HUB, my locker in the helicarrier, the shooting range, my fucking fridge. Phil used to take an obscene delight in making me jump and scream like a tween girl. Because, as I keep telling you, Phil was a fucking troll.

One time, he had slightly miscalculated a good position for the bunny, and instead of me finding him, it was a sleep- and caffeine-deprived Hill. At oh-dark-thirty on a Tuesday.

The epic dressing-down she gave him is now SHIELD legend. It's a tale often told to new recruits as part of their initiation, and is usually one of the top five reasons given for "Why we do not cross the Deputy Director."

Even though Phil triaged the damn stuffed animal himself, Foo still has a bumpy, uneven scar from where Hill shot him.

"Heavy Metal, Birdbrain, MC Hammer, shoot 'em in the left paw," Stark's voice cut through the comms, shaking me out of my reverie. "However they're communicating, that's where the receiver is."

"Do it," Cap's voice confirmed. "Once they're isolated, we'll drive 'em into the river from the ground."

Did you know that laser-armed robot bunnies explode awful pretty when you shoot 'em in the front paw? No? I didn't either. But I'm sure glad I know that now.

"Damnit, Stark," Hill sighed. "I told you to herd them to Jersey."

"Not my fault I figured it out before you got 'em across the river," Tony replied.

"Just once, would you control your impulse to explode things until we're no longer in a city where you can be held personally fiscally responsible?" Hill asked.

Tony scoffed. "I can afford it."

"I'll let you explain that to Pepper," Hill said drily.

I didn't have to see Tony's face to know exactly what that flinch looked like. Oh man, Pepper was gonna flay him alive… I might have to pop some popcorn and watch.

But later. After I'd gotten some fucking sleep. And after I'd figured out whatever the hell had made Nat so damn angry.

So, here's the thing about comm clutter (and internal monologuing, but let's blame the comms for now): it's distracting. Mid-battle banter is great and all, and it's a thing we as a team enjoy doing, because we are (according to Lewis) irreverent little shits. But it does tend to distract you from what you're doing. Which, when fighting the Monster of the Week, isn't always a great thing.

I may have been focusing on Stark and Hill's bickering a bit more than I should have. Which is the reason I'm choosing to blame for why I didn't see the twelve foot tall mechanized demon rabbit from Hell turn in my direction.

I appreciate Barnes firing off a (fucking beautiful; seriously, this man's rifle work is a thing of art) round to incapacitate the laser. Unfortunately for me and the building I stood atop, he didn't shoot quite fast enough.

I was not aware that lasers could cut through a building. I know now.

I am, however, very aware that despite my codename, I can't actually fly. Doesn't stop me from trying.

Fortunately, I have a bird bro who's very good about catching me.

Even more fortunately, I got hit in the head on the way down by a chunk of flying building, so I didn't have to listen to Stark's jokes.

Perhaps most fortunately of all, Phil was no longer alive to lecture me for my tendency to swan dive off of buildings. (Horribly unfortunately, Nat _was_ still around, and she _loves_ giving me that lecture.)

When I woke up, I was – to my disdain and disgruntlement – in the Tower's hospital floor. Hooked up to way more IVs and machines than was strictly necessary. I hadn't even hit the ground, so what the hell…

(Nat. It was Nat. This is how she punishes me for taking swan dives off buildings, she uses her powers as my medical proxy to get me hooked up to unnecessary amounts of machinery.)

Huffing in irritation, I did a quick systems check. Bit woozy (probably concussed again), little sore (fucking flying building debris) and there'd be some impressive bruises, but nothing felt broken so there was no reason to stay in bed…

"Don't even think about it."

I groaned, my head falling back onto the pillow (note to self: stop moving head wildly, it makes the dizzy worse). I didn't have to look back over my shoulder to know that Nat was smirking at me; I could feel it coming from her general direction.

While I squirmed on the bed (I don't care if it's a Stark subsidiary medical product, there is no such thing as a comfortable hospital bed), Nat moved her chair into my line of sight, gracefully sinking into it and putting her feet up on the mattress.

"Have to hand it to Stark," she commented. "He finally made a hearing aid that even you can't destroy."

I gave her the only appropriate response, and stuck my tongue out at her.

"How long am I here?" I asked.

"Until I sign you out," she replied. "And don't even think about trying to forge my signature. Release authorization comes from me giving JARVIS the correct spoken code. Which we change frequently."

"Goddamnit," I grumbled.

Nat observed me for a long moment, and despite the faint smile on her face I could tell she was worried.

"You've got to stop doing this, Clint," she finally said.

"Doing what?" I asked, folding my arms. "Provoking demon bunnies?"

"That too," she inclined her head. "But I meant the complete and utter lack of regard for your safety."

I shifted on the bed; Jesus, these things really aren't comfortable. "I dunno what you're talking about-"

"Phil would be furious with you if he could see you like this," she interrupted me.

I clenched my jaw. "Don't."

"No," she said, mirroring my folded arms. "I've held my peace for long enough. I'm your friend, Clint. And as your friend, I'm telling you, you can't keep doing this-"

"I'm not doing anything," I cut her off.

"Exactly," she retorted. "You aren't doing _anything_ to take care of yourself. You're as bad as Steve was."

I shot her a Look.

"Fine, maybe not quite that bad," Nat acknowledged with a shrug. "But you're not far behind him."

"You think I jumped off that roof on purpose?" I challenged her.

"I think you didn't care whether or not you hit the ground," she replied simply.

Well, that shut me up right quick.

Nat sighed, taking her feet off the mattress and leaning forward, laying her hand over mine. She didn't speak, she didn't try to hug me or anything; she just waited. Because she knows me, and she knew all she had to do was wait me out.

Someday, I swear to God I'm gonna work up some righteous indignation about the fact that Natasha knows everything and is always right.

She'd been on SHIELD's radar for a long time before I brought her in. SHIELD keeps a bead on most if not all of the professional spysassins in the world. It's called the I Spy list (I'm not even kidding. Sitwell had a weird sense of humor.). The I Spy list is divided into two sub-categories – Red Rover (for the spysassins SHIELD wouldn't mind recruiting) and Tag (for the ones who don't come quietly). Nat was on the I Spy list for years. Until Sao Paolo, when she became Tag Target Number Four. Fury tried sending other teams after the Widow, but… Well, at least we got 'em back in body bags. And so Ol' One Eye sent me to tag her out.

A month later, I brought her in.

I thought Fury would lift his eyepatch and vaporize me with the death ray SHIELD rumors assure me he has hidden under there. He put me on probation for six months for my "fucking suicidal dumbass stunt." And by "probation" I mean "handed me all the suicide missions." He also informed me that since I'd brought the Widow in, I got to be her SO while she went through the intake process.

But he also promoted me to Level 7, so. Couldn't complain too hard.

For the first six weeks, Nat spent all her time in heavy lockdown solitary confinement, working with the shrinks to deprogram all of the Red Room's deep triggers. Not a pretty process. Once they cleared her, we started training together, getting her square with the rule book (Coulson enjoyed that part), running a couple ("insultingly easy," to quote Nat) test missions.

We worked surprisingly well together, for which I take all the credit. And by "I take all the credit" I of course mean "Phil should take the credit, but he won't, so I'm taking it on his behalf." She was even more closed-off and wary than she is now, had no reason to trust any of us, but somehow Phil got through to her. She didn't trust SHIELD any further than she could throw them, and I had my doubts sometimes that she trusted me, but she trusted Phil. It was enough to go on.

I was four months into my probationary period when Fury handed us a top secret, classified to high heaven, black ops, completely off all the books, don't even think the word "back-up," wetwork mission.

There are certain kinds of missions that bond you and your partner tighter than blood and deeper than love. It's more than sex or soul mates or trench buddies; it just _is_. You become partners for life, and it's the most meaningful relationship you ever have.

Budapest became that for me Nat and me.

Budapest also stands as the one time in history anyone has ever punched Nick Fury, and _Fury_ was the one to apologize. I never saw Phil so furious in my life.

Incidentally, that punch was also the moment I realized that not only was I ass over bow in love with Phil, but that he loved me back. Best moment of my life. (Also the most terrifying moment of my life, but let's not focus on that.)

I never worked with another Agent again, until the Avengers Initiative happened. Even now, after SHIELDRA has imploded, it's the same deal; I work with Nat, or I work alone.

Anyways, the point of this prolonged history lesson is that Natasha always knows everything. She is the one (living) person I can never lie to. So Nat calling me out on not caring if I hit the ground? Yeah, I kind of have no defense.

I stared at my hands, tracing a number of silver-white scars on my knuckles (from the circus, when I was learning how to juggle and throw knives and punches). "Foo's missing."

Nat drew a single, slow breath in and out. The sound made my hackles rise; I know that tell.

"I know," she said quietly.

I looked up at her sharply, scrutinizing her face. She met my gaze, and to my utter terror she didn't put up any of her masks; she just let me look at her.

"Oh god," I whispered, barely able to push the words past the lump in my throat. "What happened?"

Nat didn't answer; not verbally. She took one of my hands in both of hers, pressing my fingers as she swallowed.

"Fuck," I hissed, ducking my head as the tears came.

See, this is what I'm talking about, that whole _most important relationship in your life_ thing. Most of the time, Nat and I don't actually communicate through words. It's 97% body language. (Drives Stark bonkers on poker nights.) We know at least nineteen languages and dialects between us, and our most important communications are always nonverbal.

So this, right here? Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. She hadn't been like this since _that night_ ; the first night after Phil died.

As you may have guessed, Nat was the one to tell me that Phil had been killed. Because of course she was. She wouldn't have allowed it to be anyone else. And she'd done it just like this; she'd taken my hands, drawn that (horrible) slow breath (of doom), and swallowed hard, letting all the masks drop so I could see the truth on her face.

We spent that entire first night sitting on my couch, clinging to each others' hands. We didn't speak, didn't cry, didn't really grieve (at least, not the way normal people presumably do it); we just sat together in Phil's and my apartment. I held the damn rabbit in my lap the whole night; every once in a while Nat would reach down and stroke his ears or his stomach, or squeeze his right foot.

When the first fingers of dawn crept through the window, we still didn't speak; we just stood, packed my duffel and my go bag, got into Nat's car, and drove from SoHo to my safe house in Bed-Stuy. She lived with me for those first six weeks, and I don't think we spoke more than a dozen words. We didn't need them; like I said, it's all body language.

So to be sitting here, like this, with Nat… Yeah, those were memories I really didn't want disturbed. And because it's Nat, this was intentional.

"Tell me," I ordered, bracing for a blow.

"I can't," she replied. "It's something I have to show you."

"Then get me outta here," I demanded.

She leaned back slightly – not enough to let go of my hands, but enough that she could observe me. And my bruises.

"You're taking the drips," she decided.

I rolled my eyes, but didn't bother to argue. If this meant she was letting me out of the hospital wing, I'd do anything she said.

Nodding once, Nat stood, folding her arms and carefully watching me as I got to my unsteady feet. Still a bit dizzy, balance still wasn't great, but good enough. Nat observed the drips in question – presumably saline, morphine, and nutrient – with a critical eye before nodding once in approval.

"JARVIS," Nat addressed the AI. "Barton Release Code Papa-November-Delta-Bravo-Kilo-Lima-one-niner-four four."

"Release code accepted, Agent Romanoff," JARVIS replied.

Nodding, Nat turned back to me. "Foo's at the range."

Y'know, I've known Nat for years now. I know better than to be surprised by anything she says or does. And yet, she still constantly surprises me.

"The fuck? Why's he down there?" I asked.

"That's the part I have to show you," she replied.

Sweet baby Jesus H Christ tap-dancing on a fencepost with dinner, dancing and a kiss goodnight. What the fuck are you getting me into now, Romanoff.

Nat was very careful to mask the fact that she was matching my (slow, shambling, zombie-like) pace. I would have been annoyed with her about it, but… well, I didn't have the energy.

Eventually, we made it to the shooting range. Before she opened the door, Nat laid a hand on my shoulder.

"I want you to know," she said, sounding unusually (terrifyingly) uncertain. "Stark doesn't know. About this. None of them do. I didn't even know, until JARVIS alerted me this morning."

"You are really not helping," I told her, before shouldering my way into the range.

So there's a secret super power that every self-respecting spysassin has. It's the ability to know, even in a pitch dark room, when there is someone else occupying the same space as you. I can't really explain how we know; it's just something about the way the air feels. And if you're a really good spysassin (e.g., me, Nat, Barnes), you can tell the intentions of the other person in the room.

Pitch black room? Not good.

Other person had no actively nefarious intentions? Well… okay then… Didn't explain why they didn't turn the lights on, but okay…

"I see Foo's gotten himself some upgrades in the last couple of years."

Oh shit, I'm dead. I am dead and hallucinating. Or I'm dead, and Phil is meeting me in the Afterlife. With the goddamn bunny, because of course.

"JARVIS," I snapped.

JARVIS, being the incredibly helpful bro he is, immediately snapped on the lights – not bright enough to blind me, but enough so that I could see the hallucination fully.

Dark grey bespoke suit, white shirt, blue and silver striped tie. Bvlgari wristwatch (outrageously expensive Christmas present; won it for him in a game of poker). He looked exactly the same as he had the last time I saw him.

Except… Not quite exactly the same. He was thinner, there were new lines around his eyes, more silver threading through his hair. And the look in his eyes… There was sorrow there, and more burdens on his shoulders. No, he wasn't quite the same Phil.

I stared and stared and _stared_ , my brain not able – or maybe not willing – to put the pieces together. I stared until I felt dizzy, and had to lean against the IV tree to keep from collapsing.

He was there in an instant, gripping me tight to keep me upright. I clung to him, bursting into ugly sobs the second his scent invaded my nose (motor oil, wool, and that really nice sandalwood cologne he'd used for years). I buried my face in his neck, unable to process what was going on but terrified that it was about to stop. And he stayed with me, not letting me go for a second; solid and steady as always.

"I don't- I can't- What the _fuck_?" I gasped between sobs.

"God, I'm sorry," he whispered; how long had he been repeating this litany? (Don't care, don't care, god don't ever stop…) "I'm here, I'm sorry, I'm not dead, I'm here, _fuck_ …"

I shuddered, pulling away enough to stare at him. God, it was a kick to the gut; it was _him_ , he was _here_ , how the fuck was this happening?

"What the fuck," I repeated, clenching his suit jacket in my fists. "What the _fuck_ is going on, Phil?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "God, I'm so fucking sorry."

Damn. He was swearing. He never swears (unless, of course, he's got no control of himself, but he was clothed right now, so this was even more unusual).

"You're alive," I said blankly. "How are you alive? I saw your body in the morgue."

"I know," he nodded. "I know, I'm so sorry. I was. I was dead. Fury brought me back."

"Fury," I said, dazed. "Fury knew you were alive."

Phil nodded. "He brought me back to rebuild SHIELD."

"He knew you were alive," I said, doing my best impression of a broken record. "He knew you were alive. And he didn't tell me."

Phil shook his head. "The Avengers need to remain a separate entity from SHIELD. You have the public's trust and cooperation. You need to keep that. And you need to remain autonomous from the control of any governmental oversight. SHIELD can't be that for you, right now. Maybe not ever."

"I don't give a rat's ass about the politics," I snapped. "I care about _you_ , and the fact that Fury never told me the truth."

"The politics are exactly why Fury didn't tell you," Phil said. "He needed you and Natasha away from the wreck of SHIELD. Safe, with a team you trusted."

"You think I couldn't have trusted you?" I asked, stung. "You think I wouldn't have gone dark with you?"

"You know I don't think that," he countered. "I know you would have come."

That drew me up short. Because if Phil knew he could have asked me to come with him, then there was only one reason he hadn't…

"You didn't want me," I said tightly.

"That's not true."

The words burst from him, rough and gravelly. Huh. He really was close to losing control.

"I will _never_ not want you," he said. "But I needed you _safe_. My team, we're going after HYDRA and alien tech and 084's, Gifteds and Inhumans. And I need you to be safe."

"And I needed you _home_ ," I replied, meeting his gaze and refusing to let him go.

He flinched, then. It was tiny; the barest tightening around his eyes, the slightest hunch of his shoulders. It was as good as a shout for me.

"I didn't want to leave," he said.

I clenched my jaw, looking away. "Yeah, well. You did."

"I know," he said hoarsely. "I broke my promise. I'm sorry."

It was my turn to flinch, then. Fuck, why'd he have to remind me. It was the very first promise he'd made me, when he signed the paperwork to be my handler.

"I can't promise to protect you," he'd told me. "You know what this job is. And you're good, Barton. I'm going to send you on the jobs where you can do the most good, and those won't be resort spas. I can't promise that you won't spend a lot of time with your life in danger. But I can promise that I won't leave you. I will never leave one of my agents out in the cold. Alive, dead, or bleeding, I will always bring you home."

I folded my arms, taking care to plant my feet so I wouldn't list to the side (fucking concussion). "Why come back from the dead now?"

Phil paused, licking his lips as he considered how to answer me. His eyes roamed over me, cataloging the injuries and IVs (well, now I knew why Nat had wanted me to bring them. Natalia Alianovna Romanova, queen and master of the silent guilt trip.).

"A friend asked me what I was fighting for," he replied slowly, staring at me intently. "Before I met you, the answer was that I was fighting to protect the world."

See, this is why Phil would make a great superhero. He's all about protecting the little guy, standing up for what's good and true in the world. (Hell, there's a reason Captain America was his hero growing up.)

"And now?" I asked.

Phil laid a hand on my cheek, letting me feel the slight tremble in his fingers as his eyes burned into mine.

"Fuck the world," he said evenly. "It's for you."

I should probably not find that hot as hell. I mean, that's awful close to villain talk, there.

But fuck it. It's not like I have any self-preservation skills.

I yanked him close, crashing my lips on his before he could say something stupid, like remind me to be careful of my ribs.

Aha. There's the snapping of control I was waiting for.

Most of the time, I'm the impatient one. Phil prefers to be slow and thorough; to systematically and methodically take me to pieces. Not today. Today it was all teeth and tongue, harsh and demanding and desperate.

And for the first time in two years, I could breathe.

"I was in town for a meeting when one of my agents sent me footage of the fight," Phil said, clutching at me. "Jesus Clint, what the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I really hoped Foo didn't adopt the robots," I quipped, pulling him in for another kiss. "I'm still mad at you," I muttered. "So, so fucking mad."

"I know," he replied, clinging to my shoulders. "I know, and I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."

"I don't care if you have to go away sometimes," I told him. "I don't care if you have long ops or have to go dark. But you come home, you understand me? You come back to me."

"I promise," he nodded. "Not leaving you. Ever again."

It was enough to go on.

I swear to God, the demon rabbit cyborg _hummed_ to himself as he propelled himself up into the air vents.

As terrifying as that is… At least he wasn't there to watch, this time.


End file.
